Terra Australis
I would like to blame the lack of entries on the floods in Oxford, indeed that would be a single malt idea, but sadly, it is due to some travel, some caperings and of course, some whisky.
In the 8th (and final) week of term in Oxford I jumped on that aeroplane bound for the Great South Land to relive my Canberra classic times. On the flight I sat next to a large, shaven headed English football fan who had a singularly annoying habit of referring to me as 'Boss'. I would have gone insane over this in time if he didn't give me another reason to add him to the Most Wanted List (along with Gregor's extirpator): he kept having brainwaves of genius about which he had to tell me, even if that invovled waking me up or mimicking for me to remove my headphones. Even still, the flight was good enough and, like Nelson, my patriotism kept me going throughout the Boss moments.
I got into the airport (Kingsford-Smith airport in Sydney: for a moment I thought I was at the wrong place, as there is a small Kingsford-Smith airport near the Brisbane DOMESTIC terminal, I thought the same may occur here, but fortunately I was a moron) at around 5:30am, 2 days before I left, or thereabouts. Tired, dehydrated and still examining my person for hints of that smell I picked up in the Bangkok waiting room, I scrambled out of the queue in an attempt to find Di from amongst the waiting masses. No sightings. I stood up on my bag to get a clearer look. No sightings. I almost sit down in a humph, thinking that this is one final masterstroke pulled by the Boss-man in an attempt to thwart my Australian good times, until I catch a glimpse of a familiar jumper, scarf and hair colour combination, and zero in. It is not Di. But luckily I do spot her beyond this imposter and reunite.
The drive back was cautious as the rain came down in bucketsful. [I recall Mrs Bopf, my year 12 English teacher having a go at newspapers for saying 'liftouts' as opposed to 'lifts-out', and I suppose bucketful x n, when n is > or = to 2, should be 'bucketsful'. Mental, no? She also claimed that if she drew a diagram of a tennis court on the board and asked 'How many rectangles are there' we would give different answers, thus there are differing (yet equally correct) viewpoints on any given problem. I said, no, that is also mental. Good times in Yr 12 English, let me assure you.]
When we arrived back to the Federal Highway estate, I tried to put on a brave face and suggest that to spite the jetlag, we go out for a walk or a swim or a marathon cycling session. I was halfway through tying up the shoelace on my left sneaker when I decided to rest my eyes.
In the 8th (and final) week of term in Oxford I jumped on that aeroplane bound for the Great South Land to relive my Canberra classic times. On the flight I sat next to a large, shaven headed English football fan who had a singularly annoying habit of referring to me as 'Boss'. I would have gone insane over this in time if he didn't give me another reason to add him to the Most Wanted List (along with Gregor's extirpator): he kept having brainwaves of genius about which he had to tell me, even if that invovled waking me up or mimicking for me to remove my headphones. Even still, the flight was good enough and, like Nelson, my patriotism kept me going throughout the Boss moments.
I got into the airport (Kingsford-Smith airport in Sydney: for a moment I thought I was at the wrong place, as there is a small Kingsford-Smith airport near the Brisbane DOMESTIC terminal, I thought the same may occur here, but fortunately I was a moron) at around 5:30am, 2 days before I left, or thereabouts. Tired, dehydrated and still examining my person for hints of that smell I picked up in the Bangkok waiting room, I scrambled out of the queue in an attempt to find Di from amongst the waiting masses. No sightings. I stood up on my bag to get a clearer look. No sightings. I almost sit down in a humph, thinking that this is one final masterstroke pulled by the Boss-man in an attempt to thwart my Australian good times, until I catch a glimpse of a familiar jumper, scarf and hair colour combination, and zero in. It is not Di. But luckily I do spot her beyond this imposter and reunite.
The drive back was cautious as the rain came down in bucketsful. [I recall Mrs Bopf, my year 12 English teacher having a go at newspapers for saying 'liftouts' as opposed to 'lifts-out', and I suppose bucketful x n, when n is > or = to 2, should be 'bucketsful'. Mental, no? She also claimed that if she drew a diagram of a tennis court on the board and asked 'How many rectangles are there' we would give different answers, thus there are differing (yet equally correct) viewpoints on any given problem. I said, no, that is also mental. Good times in Yr 12 English, let me assure you.]
When we arrived back to the Federal Highway estate, I tried to put on a brave face and suggest that to spite the jetlag, we go out for a walk or a swim or a marathon cycling session. I was halfway through tying up the shoelace on my left sneaker when I decided to rest my eyes.
posted by Tim Trudgian | 2:16 pm
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